The first I saw of her was three minutes of video surreptitiously taken before the camcorder was confiscated. All footage of her unique act was strictly controlled. I remember losing the need to breathe as the sunlight runneling off the stained-glass spine of Tessadorma Cathedral broke into a billion particles across her taut scapulae. I understood why men gave up food for art. Each small motion of her brutal-angled body declared her mastery of it as she strode across her stage. This woman had honed herself into the devoted tool of her profession. Even as she gripped the rope in both of those strong hands and hoisted her subject kicking into the air, I knew that my life would be a disappointment if it did not, however fleetingly, intersect with hers.<\/p>\n
The most famous noosemaker of Vizhilly was waiting for me when I emerged from the terminal three hours delayed. The sight of her loitering on the curb beside her autocar like a common chauffeur stopped me short and smacked me silent.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you the reporter then?\u201d she asked, in accented but professorial Anglic. She was taller than me by a few inches and similarly broader. Black hair braided into thick bulbs piled upon her strong shoulders, that musculature a testimony to a lifetime of physical labor. She wore a peacock-colored avger\u00e9, like a saree that tied into a bow at the chest, and a pair of leather driving gloves. Flecks of gold jewelry glinted modestly from her ears, lips, and brow. There was an aquiline sharpness to her features, an inherent disapproval of everything, and her lavender eyes seemed to scold me for staring.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s me, ma\u2019am,\u201d I stammered. I\u2019d spent the overnight flight constructing my perfect first impression, and it currently lay in pieces at my feet.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood,\u201d she said tersely but not unkindly, and opened the passenger\u2019s door. \u201cCome along. We\u2019re behind schedule.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her voice carried the same authority as the nuns who\u2019d thrashed me through four years of Yeshuite school. I hurried to throw my luggage inside and myself after it.<\/p>\n
I\u2019d dialed my editor Ian moments after I\u2019d seen her on that video. I hadn\u2019t expected to be so much as humored. I\u2019d put in my time covering separatist rallies in Azovian Rus and labor protests in B?izh?u, but the New Anglund Post was still a callow upstart in the court of journalism, and a deep-dive on one of the world\u2019s most reclusive celebrities seemed like reaching at stars from the bottom of a well. Yet two weeks later I was presented with a ticket to the country where she plied her trade. \u201cA shot in the dark doesn\u2019t always miss,\u201d Ian had said, sounding just as dumbfounded as I was.<\/p>\n
\u201cSorry I\u2019m late,\u201d I said, as she took us on to the road.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere\u2019s nothing to apologize for,\u201d she replied sidelong, fastidiously studying the traffic. \u201cSuch is the reality of a country like mine.\u201d<\/p>\n
True enough. It was difficult as it was to land an aeroplane on a stationary target, much less one in perpetual, unpredictable motion. The country of Vizhilly, that restless landmass, was presently squelching like a kidney stone between the borders of Cumanistan and Gurkanistan on its way westward, and the conflicting airspaces of those two rival nations had made my decent more of an action movie than I could enjoy.<\/p>\n
As the freeway emerged from a tunnel, it took us in a descending swoop over the capital city of Tessadorma. A heavy, hot rain beat down upon its rolling terra-cotta surface, courtesy of the atmospheric confusion whipped up by the country\u2019s motion. The guidebooks called it the Seasonless City; so close to Vizhilly\u2019s hindmost border no climate was guaranteed. This land snared winds on its dorsal mountains as it traveled, abducting and releasing at whim, the same as it purloined culture and architecture from those nations it visited or had fleetingly conquered it. This high above the depressed cityscape I could make out pagodas lifted from B?izh?u, aqueducts pilfered from the Reman Empire before its collapse. An old city patched with modernity, like Edo or Parisius, but old from many times more deposits of age. I felt fleetingly nauseous when I pulled my eyes away, as though I teetered over a thousand compounded vistas instead of one.<\/p>\n
I recalled the famous words that the Emperor Gaius Caesarion had uttered upon his coming to this land: Ita vero. Mundus hie agit. Tis true, the world does flow here.<\/p>\n
\u201cMotion sickness is to be expected,\u201d the noosemaker said, noticing my reaction. \u201cIt should pass quickly. If not, there are pills.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll be fine,\u201d I said, probably lying. \u201cI didn\u2019t expect you to pick me up in person. Don\u2019t you have people?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course,\u201d she replied. \u201cBut when I saw that we were to lose plenty of time as it was, I decided not to waste any more sending a driver here and back. I thought we might begin the preliminary interview now, if you don\u2019t mind.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot at all,\u201d I said, hurriedly producing my digital recorder. \u201cWhenever you\u2019re ready.\u201d<\/p>\n
She did not take her eyes off the road but did lean in slightly, to be heard. \u201cMy name is Chella Gipzodi,\u201d she said, enunciating carefully. \u201cI am thirty-three years old, and I execute people beautifully.\u201d
\n<\/p>\n
I\u2019d rented three weeks of a shoebox apartment in the Cim Haralesh District, the least outrageously expensive region of an outrageously expensive city. I was both relieved and exasperated to be told that I was welcome in her home for the duration of my stay.<\/p>\n
Her house sat high up in the cedar-wooded hills above the city, aloof but invested in the goings-on below, a veritable palace in the local Pradovishte school of architecture, as open as an agora with few walls and many looming columns. In all that space she lived alone, apart from a minimum staff of housekeepers. It contained everything one would need to remain solitary\u2014a small pond for cultivating fish, a Vizhillian Orthodox Yeshuite chapel, and a gymnasium where a strict daily exercise regimen kept her in the necessary condition to hang men and women.<\/p>\n
Towards the evening the noosemaker took me to her atelier in the basement. \u201cThese are my works-in-progress,\u201d she explained, guiding me between nooses in stages of completion, arrayed on tables so low to the woven straw floor that she had to shuffle about her on knees. \u201cThis one is for a murderer,\u201d she said, addressing a noose of glossy black fiber. \u201cIt is woven with the hair of his female victims. I have threaded it with the garrote strings and shards of glass he used in his crimes. They will not cut him, however. That would be the mistake of a novice.\u201d She looked at me seriously, and said, \u201cit is the duty of a noosemaker to be neutral in all things.\u201d<\/p>\n
I recorded everything on a handheld camera, still not quite convinced that I was really here. This seemed more like the happy dream I\u2019d have as my aeroplane plummeted into the sea. My colleagues would all kill to see this room, to see this art in its fetal state.<\/p>\n
She led me to another, thicker noose. \u201cOne must be considerate with her creations,\u201d she said, lifting the rope for me to see. \u201cThis one belongs to a subject who drowned her child. She is one point seven meters tall and weighs eighty-six kilograms. If the length and tensile strength of the rope does not reflect that, it may strangle her as I raise her, or snap as I drop her.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are those flowers you\u2019ve added there, miss?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cVizhillian heart-orchids,\u201d she answered. \u201cThe subject grew them for competition as a hobby. And you may call me Chella.\u201d<\/p>\n
And art it was, never-mind one\u2019s opinion of it. The culture of noosemaking was older than sfumato or chiaroscuro; Chella Gipzodi\u2019s work toured galleries across the world. Their unabashed lethality made my stomach clench, but seeing the dedication she poured into these tools, I had to admire them. Those strong hands twisted craft and death into a helix, a thing impossible not to regard as both.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is the purpose of all this?\u201d I asked, as much for myself as my future readers.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is complicated,\u201d she replied, fiddling with those orchids, arranging them just so. \u201cMine is the final and most inalienable mercy, one owed to all, no matter their name or crime. You must understand, there is no concept more sacred in Vizhilly. Our country puts its faith in us to grant all our subjects a fair and dignified death. Hence the oath of impartiality that all Noosemakers must swear. It is not our place to decide punishment. Merely to deliver it properly, and no more.\u201d<\/p>\n
Chella put her work down and looked at me through my camera. \u201cMy nooses are for the people they hang,\u201d she said. \u201cTo help them roar in their final moments, regardless of what they have done to come there. But most do not know what they want to say. Humans are heart-blind. I have achieved unusual success because I am skilled at putting the right words on strangled lips.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow do you know? That they\u2019re the right words, I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n
The corner of her mouth may have turned up a fraction of a degree, or it might have been nothing. \u201cI see them smile when they hang.\u201d<\/p>\n
Before I could press her further, she stood, and whatever I\u2019d imagined was objectively not there. \u201cTomorrow morning we will meet with my newest subject,\u201d she informed me. \u201cFor the next three weeks, you and I will do all we can to learn about her life so that I can craft the noose that will conclude it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s her name?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJasviga Malmarek.\u201d<\/p>\n
I frowned. \u201cAnd who is that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAn actress, a philanthropist, and a national icon, you could say.\u201d<\/p>\n
The following morning we departed at seven sharp, arriving at eight-thirty after a grueling slog through mid-city traffic. Tessadorma had shrugged off the storm the way a rich woman would discard a coat worn once; the new day\u2019s fashion was the sapphire sky of central Asia. It brought the natives out to shop along the city\u2019s narrow, cobble-paved streets and jam intersections that yet lacked electric stoplights. The Vizhillian tradition when rear-ended, I discovered, was to leap from one\u2019s autocar and argue with the other driver for minutes at a time. Dueling with clubs\u2014spoztang hi dulo\u2014had only recently been outlawed.<\/p>\n
Death row, for Jasviga Malmarek, was a gated chateau across a plaza from the cathedral where executions were held. \u201cWhy don\u2019t they keep her in the prison?\u201d I asked, as the guard reviewed Chella\u2019s identification and admitted us through.<\/p>\n
\u201cToo risky,\u201d she answered. \u201cA figure such as her would attract violence. And besides, the public opinion is that she has earned comfort in her final days.\u201d<\/p>\n
I\u2019d stayed up until daybreak researching the actress Jasviga Malmarek, pouring over her old interviews, her paparazzi ambushes, her talk-show spots where she was invariably glamorous and urbane. Gold-haired and bronze-skinned, with a singing voice like a honey mixed with scotch. She had performed in a dozen films over a ten-year career, but it had been just her third, Children Must Fly, that made her beloved among her people. She had played the mother-goddess Pantegloria in an operatic retelling of the Vizhillian creation myth, and theatergoers were said to have wept in their seats, for she so gave flesh to the vagrant spirit of Vizhilly. Rather than bask in her fame, however, she\u2019d embroiled herself in fundraising and charity, in cultural philanthropy, preserving those Vizhillian arts and customs threatened by modernity. She\u2019d earned herself the Wicker Heart Medal for service in the betterment of the country. What my all-nighter hadn\u2019t divulged was why she\u2019d done what she did.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe attempted to smuggle a spider,\u201d as Chella put it. \u201cSomeone died for it. That can only be a capital offense.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jasviga\u2019s cell was a spacious apartment with a splendid, if barred, view of the cityscape. The woman herself was less impressive. Her journey through the legal system had reduced her to a cinder of her on-screen self, her clothing prison-issued gray, her hair stringy and unwashed, her dimples become craters in her cheeks. She was willing to sit with us at her tea-table but would not lift her hollowed eyes from the floor to meet ours.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know who I am,\u201d Chella said, by way of introduction. She had arranged a notepad and pen before her. \u201cTo begin with, I would like to know the motivation behind your actions.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jasviga Malmarek said nothing. Through the glass table, I could see her fitfully kneading the lap of her skirt.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were apprehended transporting a goldhead spider in the lining of your suitcase into the United Colonies of Columbia,\u201d Chella continued. \u201cDuring your interrogation, the spider escaped its container and lethally bit a security agent. Surely you knew that was a risk.\u201d<\/p>\n
Again, the actress would not speak. She reminded me of those refugees I\u2019d encountered, stunned into muteness by a hard drop from a happy life. It was terrible of me, but I preferred her recorded self, the persona that had inspired and uplifted millions. That was the real her immortalized in celluloid, not this nuclear shadow left by the explosion of her life.<\/p>\n
Chella did not speak ungently, but after several more questions, Jasviga began to sob into her hands. \u201cI think we\u2019d better go for now,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Chella nodded, her lips drawn tight as one of her nooses.<\/p>\n
With our meeting ended prematurely we spent some time strolling around the city center. Chella did not say as much, but I think she enjoyed the chance to share her culture with me. We were not far from the Remanesque parliament building, and even closer to the bifurcated Tromohelit Palace, ancient seat of the Tallduke and Smallduke of Vizhilly. No other country in the world elected two competing executives, but that perpetual impasse appealed to the Vizhillian spirit of Agfum\u00eb hi Narnangr\u2014going with the flow, in close-enough Anglic. An inevitable sentiment to reach, I felt, when the land beneath them would accept neither saddle or reins.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe goldface spider is considered extremely valuable in other countries. True to their name, their exoskeletons are naturally reinforced with gold, and their abdomens resemble masks. No two are alike; preserved specimens are treated as art.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her route took us through a park shaded by olive trees whose boughs bent with the weight of their fruit. We passed picnicking families taking advantage of the ephemeral sunshine, homeless folks and couples doing the same, buskers playing the sitar for coins for as long as it took for the gendarmerie to scatter them like pigeons. Vizhillians could only live in this moment. What use was the next one, when it might not be there when you reached it? Seeing those smiling faces I wondered if there wasn\u2019t some deeper happiness to be had in surrendering to unpredictability. In living without the burden of decision. Que sera sera, and all that.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is why most covet them,\u201d she went on. \u201cThe other reason is that their venom is deadly in humans, even in the smallest doses, and all but undetectable. You can imagine our government would want to keep the species under strict control. Smugglers are held accountable for any deaths a spider may cause, even beyond our borders.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSeems a bit liberal with the death penalty.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is because you are a foreigner,\u201d Chella said. Not dismissively, but as a matter of fact. \u201cI would not presume to understand all the choices your country made a hundred years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
We passed into a pop-up street market, where temporary stalls offered everything from gyros to samosas to yakitori, all with a local twist, a blast of native spices. The country traveled like a vagabond, picking pockets and pilfering pies from windows. If the country stayed its course heading East, I expected Tessadorma would soon be inundated with sightseers and foodies from B?izh?u all hungry for the same strangeness I\u2019d come sniffing after. It would be as easy as stepping onto a conveyer belt, and when they stepped off again, they\u2019d leave their tastes washed up on the dining scene like shells deposited by the tide. Vizhilly would become a little more of something it had not planned to be yesterday.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you think that she\u2019s innocent?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt would be highly inappropriate of me to take a stance on the guilt of my subjects,\u201d Chella answered, a tad reproachfully. \u201cThe public could accuse me of conspiring to spare her, should the hanging fail. The courts have spoken: Jasviga Malmarek will die.\u201d<\/p>\n
We walked a little further in silence before she spoke again. \u201cThat said,\u201d she added, almost shamefully, \u201cI do think it a shame for an icon to come to such an end. In many ways, she was the face of Vizhilly. She will be missed. I hope that I can help her to be remembered.\u201d<\/p>\n
I couldn\u2019t not say it any longer. It rankled my inner journalist to be cooped up with such a naked truth. \u201cShe had to have been taking the spider to someone.\u201d<\/p>\n
Chella kept walking. The wind came up behind her and filled the drape of her avger\u00e9 like a sail. I had to scramble to keep pace. \u201cPerhaps,\u201d she said. \u201cBut that is no concern of ours. Her crime is only a small part of a long life. I am no great detective, Mister Shock. And you are certainly not my Watson.\u201d<\/p>\n
We met the following day with Jasviga\u2019s former manager. What had motivated her in those early days, Chella wanted to know. Gauzio Lamduzia had lost his mind to a local opiate called Euphoria and now lived with his nurses like a child with many mothers, but that chemical had preserved the memory of his most famous client like formaldehyde. The old man struggled to remember who we were between moments yet could expound upon a younger Jasviga as though she yet twirled before him radiantly spot-lit, a star still igniting. Neither of us could bear to bring him up to speed.<\/p>\n
I made myself look involved, but inwardly I was still picking at a spider-bite of my own. I\u2019d spent a second sleepless night at my computer, while Chella labored over her nooses two floors below. You didn\u2019t transport contraband without a buyer lined up, so I\u2019d scoured the teleweb for any previous incidents involving goldhead spiders in the United Colonies. I\u2019d found a handful of relevant hits, but nothing that seemed connected to Jasviga. Not until I stumbled over the name Hiram Bosse, belonging to real estate mogul of some notoriety based out of New Amsterdam City\u2014my own hometown, as it so happened. Several years back, a leaked photo had revealed a private collection of goldhead spiders in his seventy-second story penthouse. Possessing them, it turned out, was not illegal in the UCC, and no leads had been uncovered in the hunt for his supplier within Vizhilly. For lack of evidence, the matter had quietly starved to death.<\/p>\n
There was nothing tying Mister Bosse to Jasviga directly. Nothing indicated they\u2019d so much as occupied the same continent simultaneously. And yet\u2014<\/p>\n
And yet, she\u2019d been caught attempting entry through the port of New Amsterdam.<\/p>\n
That meant exactly zero things. New Amsterdam was a big city with more crazy billionaires than it had sewer rats. I was stretching threads across gulfs of time and saltwater and still couldn\u2019t get them to tie together.<\/p>\n
But that wouldn\u2019t stop me from trying.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou haven\u2019t asked me anything today,\u201d Chella noted later, as we drove away from Gauzio\u2019s uptown rowhouse.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh.\u201d I flushed, caught like a kid on his phone in class. \u201cYeah, sorry. My mind\u2019s all over.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt makes me wonder what you really want. Did you come here to tell my story, or are you simply chasing the most interesting thing of the moment?\u201d<\/p>\n
Are you just another gawking tourist, in other words. \u201cI thought I was doing the interview here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo did I,\u201d Chella said, primly.<\/p>\n
I winced and began to pry the trap off my ankle. \u201cI came for you,\u201d I told her. \u201cBut you got to understand\u2014I got dog-brain.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cForgive me\u2014I\u2019m not wholly fluent.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThrow a stick and I\u2019ll chase it just to see where it lands. I\u2019ll chase you just to find out why you threw it.\u201d I rapped a knuckle against my skull. \u201cThat\u2019s my brain. Dog-brain. Woof.\u201d When Chella said nothing, I carefully tread onward. \u201cWhen I found you on the teleweb, I saw this, this big, amazing, beautiful thing happening, but I didn\u2019t know why, or how, or what it was all for because it was so\u2026 different. I could\u2019ve just gone and read about what you do, or talked to someone who\u2019d seen it happen, but that wouldn\u2019t\u2019ve good enough. Places don\u2019t exist until you\u2019re standing there. People aren\u2019t real until you touch them. I came here so I could kidnap you into my world and make you nonfiction, and I\u2019ll take this whole country with me because that\u2019s how I work. I\u2019ll put the planet on a petri dish to study a grain of sand. Whatever it takes to get that stick.\u201d<\/p>\n
I wondered if that was an apology I\u2019d just said. It felt more like a confession.<\/p>\n
\u201cA big, amazing, beautiful thing,\u201d she murmured, and this time I was certain that she smiled.<\/p>\n
It didn\u2019t last. A few minutes later the traffic ahead of us ground to a crawl. Through a maze of windows and windshields, I spotted a gendarme weaving purposefully between vehicles. Chella swore in her natural tongue and tried to swerve out of it, but the lanes had closed on us like a vice.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNothing,\u201d she said, cranking up the windows.<\/p>\n
Over the next ten minutes we inched forward, vehicle by vehicle, until I could see all the nothing blocking our way. A mass of what looked like protestors were moving down the street towards the parliament building. They were mostly men, mostly adult, all wearing the same yellow-green high visibility vests. The iconography on their picket signs was universal\u2014leering faces with bloodshot eyes, fat women bearing broods of dirty children, fat-cats in waistcoats lolling in cash\u2014stereotypes both alien and familiar, all meant to stoke hate. The animus hanging over these people was as thick and black as coal smoke.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho are all these people?\u201d I asked, as we waited for a gap in the crowd.<\/p>\n
\u201cOs Vigtenazionares,\u201d she said. \u201cPermanationals.\u201d The unmasked disgust in her voice made my hair stand stiff.<\/p>\n
The name was hazily familiar. I\u2019d come across them in my pre-travel homework, though I hadn\u2019t paid them much attention then. Even as a world traveler, foreign politics always felt less significant than my own. \u201cOh right. The crazy guys. We have those where I come from too.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey want to stop the country,\u201d Chella said. \u201cAnd they aren\u2019t crazy.\u201d<\/p>\n
I imagined the country of Vizhilly gliding across the Earth, give or take one thousand miles of mountains and valleys swimming the epipelagic stone of the planet, cleaving inexorably through national borders and distending both stone and space like rubber. Here I was stuck in traffic yet traveling dozens of miles per hour on the hump of a beast a billion-ton beast. How could one possibly stop such a thing? What mechanism could disarm this geodynamic torpedo?<\/p>\n
But then I looked into Chella\u2019s eyes and understood that it was all true.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
Chella shrugged. \u201cThe same reason behind every poor choice. Fear.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFear what, exactly?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMe?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThose like you,\u201d she said. She watched the crowd the way a tiger might size up a rival in its territory. \u201cForeigners. Others. Change. Corruption. They are correct, at least, when they say that our borders are not secure. This land always shakes off its barriers before long. Should a refugee seek to flee to our country, they need only wait for us and jump aboard. We are an easy escape for criminals on the run. I won\u2019t say that my country is without its flaws. The Permas, however, would have you believe we suffer a slow invasion. They fear that every outsider we admit dilutes our culture and our blood, that before long there will be nothing truly Vizhillian left. They are convinced that our current government is in thrall to foreign interests and conspires to destroy us.\u201d<\/p>\n
I began to discern the beginnings of symmetry among the protestors. Many men and some women shaved the sides of their heads and flaunted tattoos in shouting, spiking Vizhillian script, the same sort of self-promulgating shibboleths I\u2019d observed in gangs all over the world, existing solely to demarcate us guys from those guys. It was human instinct to tribalize, and a group was most strongly defined by everyone outside it. Chains of hostile, bellowing ink joined these men together. Their bond was a choral slur.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can respect their concerns but not their goals,\u201d Chella said. \u201cShould the Permas stop the country, they intend to establish permanent borders, to build up a military and fight other countries like other countries do. Expel anything and anyone that is not purely Vizhillian. They make this land the same as every other, thinking that will make it strong. They do not care that it will kill us.\u201d<\/p>\n
The same muscle groups that artfully hung dozens tightened around the steering wheel. \u201cMy mother is Vizhillian. My father was Aksumite. I came into the world with two tongues, which bred and became more. I am the get of risk and adventure, and the Permas would have it that I had never been born.\u201d A lull appeared in the crowd and the gendarme waved us on. Chella hit the gas, speeding us through perhaps faster than was safe. \u201cA country that cannot move is a corpse.\u201d<\/p>\n
I switched off my recorder and put it away. I didn\u2019t know what use that audio would be in the end, but even such a small passion from her was worth preserving. I couldn\u2019t take my eyes away from her\u2014not until she turned and caught me looking. As a journalist I yearned for truth, and in that moment of fracturing indiscipline, the truth of Chella Gipzodi had doubled.<\/p>\n
\u201cI apologize that you had to see that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t sweat it,\u201d I said, quickly turning my gaze out the window. \u201cEveryone has their moments.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot that. The Permas. If you want my country, you\u2019ll have to take the bad with the good.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jasviga\u2019s parents lived in a small town called Zberazu near the relative northern border of the country. Rather than drive some six hours over mountainous hurdles, we traveled via the famous Painted Train of Vizhilly. Each carriage had been graffitied by one of the country\u2019s most esteemed artists, allowing those along its rural route to see their work for free. Foreign art students crowded our stop, snapping photos and taking notes, to the visible consternation of commuting locals.<\/p>\n
Jasviga had set her parents up in modest country house with a clay-tiled roof and a garden of vibrant succulents. Tovye and Masriska Malmarek were welcoming people, sitting us at their table before all else and presenting us with food enough for a family\u2014molten curry with nutria meat, tamales overloaded with native scorpion peppers, a pitcher of minty nut milk called irozni. They were proud to answer all Chella\u2019s question about their daughter, though the reality of Jasviga\u2019s situation hung over them like smog. They spoke of her childhood as if hoping to escape into it until this tragic present was past.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe always had such a love for this country,\u201d her mother told us. \u201cI remember the day she was cast as the Goddess. She called me in tears, she was so happy. It was not just a role for her; it was her chance to be the mother of Vizhilly.\u201d She gripped a photograph of her daughter as she spoke. Teenage Jasviga was a very different person, but even then, hers was a face made to be framed. \u201cAll that money she made from that film she gave to charity. I just don\u2019t know how she could do what she did.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHad she been acting strangely before her arrest?\u201d Chella asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cCouldn\u2019t say,\u201d her father sighed. \u201cShe hasn\u2019t come to visit in a good few months now. We supposed she must have been busy being famous. We… always wished she could visit more often.\u201d<\/p>\n
They\u2019d turned their home into a museum of their daughter. They had copies of all her films; her movie posters were hung in every room. Their mantle was a shrine of family memories\u2014Jasviga the laughing baby birthday girl, the beaming high school graduate\u2014created in the na\u00efvet\u00e9 that it would continue to grow forever. The next photo put there would be without her, and that sudden lack would forever burn like an unhealing gunshot. I wanted badly to warn them but couldn\u2019t begin to imagine the right words. It was impossible enough to catch a bullet with one\u2019s hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf you can think of anyone close to her, it could help push us in the right direction.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe has a friend,\u201d her mother said. \u201cJofra Emegheri, from the movies. Do you know her?\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t, but Chella nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey starred together in Children Must Fly,\u201d Masriska continued. \u201cI think they still speak. Maybe she could tell you more.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll remember that,\u201d Chella said. \u201cThank you both for your hospitality.\u201d<\/p>\n
As we made to leave Jasviga\u2019s father followed us to the door. \u201cWait,\u201d he said. \u201cOur daughter is innocent. A father knows these things. Someone has done this crime to her. That\u2019s why you\u2019ve really come, isn\u2019t it? You are looking for them.\u201d<\/p>\n
It struck me just about dead, the way he looked up at his daughter\u2019s killer to-be with such struggling hope. She was the very last in a long rope of people from whom he could beg a solution. Beyond her, there was only a noose.<\/p>\n
Chella looked down, then at me, and then at Jasviga\u2019s father. I knew what she would say.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d she replied. \u201cGoodbye.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDoes neutrality mean you can\u2019t lie?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI lie all the time,\u201d Chella said. \u201cEven to you. But decency says I should be honest.\u201d<\/p>\n
We\u2019d stopped at the end of the Malmarek\u2019s garden path for Chella to consult a brochure she\u2019d brought along. As was her fashion, I would have to wait until it became pertinent for an explanation.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt wouldn\u2019t hurt anything to let him have a little hope,\u201d I countered.<\/p>\n
\u201cA little hope is the worst thing I could give him,\u201d she replied without looking up. \u201cThat man will watch his only daughter hang. A little hope might well kill him too.\u201d<\/p>\n
I threw up my hands, knowing she wouldn\u2019t see it. As fascinating as I found her, her judgelike assurance that everything she said was correct drove me up the wall, not least because it was convincing. She could declare the sky to be yellow and I\u2019d struggle to prove her wrong.<\/p>\n
As I scanned the street for something interesting to look at, I started to get the familiar itch in the back of my eye that told me there was something I ought to be noticing. I narrowed my gaze, trusting my instincts, and spotted the one thing a journalist in a foreign land never wants to see.<\/p>\n
\u201cI think we\u2019re being watched.\u201d<\/p>\n
Two men were eyeballing us intently from the outdoor caf\u00e9 across the dirt road. When they saw that we were all seeing one another, they pushed their chairs back and came strutting over to us with chests puffed out like sails. Chella puffed out her own and stood her ground. \u201cBonh dagnne,\u201d she said, not unpleasantly, though it was about a chilly a good morning as you could get in her language.<\/p>\n
One of the men had shaved the sides of his head into jagged stripes and put gauges in his ears; the other had gone sleeveless, his armed inked to the knuckles in spiky runes. The two Permas weren\u2019t obviously armed, but it\u2019s hard to mistake violent men for anything else. The pierced one growled something I didn\u2019t understand\u2014my Vizhillian was rudimentary at best\u2014but it didn\u2019t sound like a good morning to you too. His friend, the one with the ink, stayed silent, but his eyes bore into me like I\u2019d uttered something about his mother.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do they want?\u201d I asked sidelong.<\/p>\n
Chella raised a finger to shush me, and I clammed up. She spoke faster than I could keep up with but held an even tone; I sensed her trying to deescalate something. In response, the Perma with the ink rolled his jaw and then spat on her shoe. Chella\u2019s nostrils flared, but her hands stayed at her sides.<\/p>\n
\u201cLeave us be,\u201d she said; I understood that much. The Perma with the gauges curled his lip and jerked his head my way. The other reached behind his back and drew a knife; my heart went zero to sixty into my ribs.<\/p>\n
Being a man who often traveled through dangerous places I\u2019d picked up a few self-defense tricks here and there, but none more reliable than kicking the other man between the legs and running. I was prepared to do just that when Chella transformed into a whirlwind of purple silk and slugged the tattooed Perma three times in the jaw before burying her fist in his stomach. The man snapped like a mousetrap, and when his head came down, she knotted her fingers through his hair and flattened his nose against her knee. The knife flew from his fingers and disappeared into Missus Malmarek\u2019s garden.<\/p>\n
Before the pierced Perma could react, Chella kicked his friend away and struck him across the temple with the back of her hand. He swung back around with a dizzy haymaker which stopped cold in her vicelike grip. Her squared fist came down on the back of his elbow, bending it against the joint. The man fell back screaming, his arm kinked like a capital L. It couldn\u2019t have taken five seconds altogether.<\/p>\n
The two picked themselves up and bolted before the gendarmerie arrived on the scene; Chella declined to give chase. No doubt she was qualified, but there was no smart reason to go running after further danger. Once we gave our statement to the authorities, she allowed me to escort her to a nearby convenience store so that we could package her hand in ice.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy readers would love to know how you did that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMy duty requires strength and discipline. These can be applied to other things.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat guy can probably smell his own brain now.\u201d<\/p>\n
Chella let me see an honest half-smile at that. I couldn\u2019t have been prouder.<\/p>\n
We sat on a bench at the side of the road with a sack of ice between us. The clerk had recognized Chella and insisted we take it free of charge. Chella differed to my expertise on the art and let me bandage her hand for her. \u201cSo what the hell were they after?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cFirstly,\u201d she said, \u201cthey were concerned about you. They were incensed to see a Vizhillian woman such as myself in the company of a foreigner.\u201d When I plainly didn\u2019t follow, she added, \u201cthey suspected we were lovers.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh. Oh! No no no.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAs I explained,\u201d she said wryly, gingerly flexing her swollen fingers. \u201cSecondly, they wanted to know what we were doing at the Malmarek house.\u201d<\/p>\n
It clicked in my head like a lightbulb turning off. What would the Permas want with Jasviga\u2019s mother and father? \u201cCrap,\u201d I muttered. \u201cI wish I\u2019d got their picture.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt can\u2019t be helped,\u201d Chella said. \u201cI expect all of this will go in your article. Does it bother you to become this much of a character in your own story?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt can\u2019t be helped,\u201d I smirked. \u201cWe should get you to a hospital.\u201d<\/p>\n
Chella stood and adjusted her avger\u00e9, becoming a perfect gentlewoman once more. \u201cThere\u2019s something I\u2019d like to show you first. It won\u2019t take long.\u201d<\/p>\n
We transferred from the Painted Train to a funicular that zig-zagged up the verdant slope of Ouslei Ost, which the map posted inside the vehicle translated to Short Hat Mountain in Anglic. Chella, naturally, would not say what lay at the top until we arrived there.<\/p>\n
At the peak I found a tidy park with little signs naming the native flowers in several languages. There was a statue of Sternberg Khan from when Vizhilly had briefly experienced Bolshevik rule, worn like a memento from a bittersweet fling. A lovely place for a picnic, but I didn\u2019t see what the hubbub was. \u201cCome along,\u201d Chella commanded, leading me into the trees.<\/p>\n
We emerged onto a roped-off clifftop where several other couples had gathered to watch the sunset\u2014strawberry ice cream melting across the horizon. Beautiful enough, but Chella said \u201cLook down,\u201d and so I did. My breath hitched in my chest before I even understood what I was seeing.<\/p>\n
Here atop Short Hat Mountain one could see all the way to the edge of Vizhilly, where two landmasses revolved against one another. I beheld with perfect clarity the dunes of the Gobi Desert scraping past the clean edge of Vizhilly\u2019s green hills, the land itself scrunched like fabric to make room. The fading sunlight snagged on the imperfect seam between spatial fault planes and frayed into a bouquet of alien colors. My legs went suddenly weak. I had accepted intellectually that the land crawled beneath me, but to see it so vividly, to have it so undeniably there, was to be thrust through the surface of a painting, to have all degrees of separation annihilated in an instant. I felt worldless, suspended above the cusp of two realities. And I despaired, because many before me had tried to capture this sensation in words and photographs, and I knew that I would fail too.<\/p>\n
\u201cI think it would be unbearable to stand upon this spot and see the same horizon, forever,\u201d Chella said from beside me.<\/p>\n
I glanced at her, remembering that time still enveloped me, and in that moment the kaleidoscopic light shattered against her face like sparks off the stars. I clasped my eyes shut around that vision to hold on to it for just that much longer. \u201cOur movement is escape,\u201d she said. \u201cIf we slow, if we stop, the world will catch up with us and make us like it. We will not be invaded\u2014we will be absorbed. That is what the Permanationals refuse to understand.\u201d<\/p>\n
I heard her as if through water. All I could think was that, like the Malmareks coming away from their daughter\u2019s hanging, I would come away from this spot with a book\u2019s worth of beautiful words, a museum of photographs, and a hole that would never be filled by them. Words lost meaning. Pictures faded. Even memories trickled away like water through fingers. The only permanence of experience was in people, who could sit by you and, with a touch, take you back to that place where you both were, long ago.<\/p>\n
If not, what else was love for?<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat can I do?\u201d I heard myself ask.<\/p>\n
\u201cNothing,\u201d Chella said, with a gentle smile. She reached across the space between us and touched my shoulder. \u201cThis place isn\u2019t yours. Seeing is enough.\u201d<\/p>\n
We left after that. I was not ready to go.<\/p>\n
By the time we made it back to Chella\u2019s house, it was a quarter to midnight, and I was running on fumes. Even so, I couldn\u2019t get sleep to come when I called. To try and take my mind off it, I dragged my laptop into bed to do some further digging on Jasviga.<\/p>\n
Why had the Perma\u2019s been staking out her parent\u2019s house? If she had any direct involvement with them, the teleweb knew nothing of it. A detour through their Friendbook groups, however, divulged that she was their public enemy number one. I followed that filthy rabbit hole deeper, stomaching taxonomies of violent memes. Jasviga strangling children, her pockets stuffed with cash. Jasviga whoring for trains of caricaturized foreigners. Her parents had told us how strongly she believed in Antideterminism, and sure enough, it turned out she\u2019d used her platform to speak out loudly against the Permanationals. They in turn hoisted her up like a straw effigy as an example of the traitors who were supposedly conspiring to let the world molest their country.<\/p>\n
I unearthed a clip a few years old of her delivering a speech to her former high school\u2019s graduating class. \u201cThere are those who say Vizhilly cannot survive in the wild,\u201d she declared, \u201cThat it must be locked up like a beast for its own good. But what I know is that we never survived any other way. We have been conquered a hundred times over and always we have escaped\u2014not through violence, but perseverance. We move forward while our foes remain. No chains can hold this land but those we put upon it.\u201d Here she looked straight at the camera, her glare piercing time and space to scold those who disagreed. \u201cFreedom begetting freedom: that is Vizhilly to me. Thank you all.\u201d<\/p>\n
The comments section was an utter nightmare, of course. I was ashamed to find that many among the Permas shared my theory in a connection between her and Hiram Bosse, whose secret spider collection had not endeared him to the movement either. In their mind, it was as good as fact she\u2019d sold those poisonous pieces of Vizhilly off for foreign cash. I was tempted to ask if they had proof.<\/p>\n
None of that explained today, though. I could imagine the Permas learning where her parents lived and deciding to use them to strike back at her, but then why would they wait this long to try something? What did it matter now, when she\u2019d be a non-issue in a few weeks\u2019 time? The whole hypothesis was as unsteady as a three-legged dog.<\/p>\n
Defeated for the moment, I lay back and begged my brain one last time to turn itself off.<\/p>\n
No dice.<\/p>\n
Chella never said I couldn\u2019t explore her home, yet it felt like trespass as I meandered through its darkened halls. This place, I sensed, was unaccustomed to others. In my mind, a home was junk drawer, collecting bits and pieces from those who visited, for however long, for whatever intimacy. My own apartment was a veritable lost-and-found of relationship artifacts. My pillow had belonged first to a roommate long since moved out. My bathroom exhibited toothbrushes from three ex-girlfriends.<\/p>\n
Chella\u2019s house was full of things\u2014statues, art, potted plants\u2014but nothing that struck me as something she had not put there herself. It lacked the incidental clutter that friends and lovers deposited as they passed through one\u2019s life. You could put a bed in anything and sleep there, sure, but it wasn\u2019t really yours until someone messed it up a little.<\/p>\n
This was a spotless museum of solitary nights and days.<\/p>\n
The door to Chella\u2019s gymnasium was ajar, and the lights were on inside. Curious, I poked my head inside to find her working out on the pull-up bar. She kept one fist flat against the dip in her spine while the other moved her up and down in an effortless rhythm. Her jacket of muscle swelled and flowed like the transformative skin of an animal bride with every repetition. She wore only a pair of clinging gym shorts and a sports bra, and her sweat glistened beneath fluorescent lighting like a dusting of constellations against her black skin. I could admit that I was attracted to that body, just as I was unnerved by the knowledge of what it was for. A weapon had no right to be so beautiful.<\/p>\n
I was about to move on for decency\u2019s sake when Chella asked, \u201cCan\u2019t sleep either?\u201d<\/p>\n
To flee now would be worse than staying. \u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I said. \u201cJetlag making love to motion sickness. What\u2019s your thing?\u201d<\/p>\n
Chella snarled through her teeth. Her bicep bulged into a perfect sphere, a cartoon bomb. \u201cI did not enjoy telling Jasviga\u2019s parents that she was going to die.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI told you it wasn\u2019t a good idea.\u201d<\/p>\n
Chella let go and landed in a half-crouch. \u201cBring me a towel,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd you are still wrong. But I wish you were right.\u201d<\/p>\n
I did as she asked and averted my gaze as she patted herself clean. It seemed obscene to stare, a violation of an artist\u2019s secret process more than anything sexual.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is hard to be neutral, more often than sometimes,\u201d she remarked. \u201cWe all like to think ourselves so strong, so capable. We always want to interfere, even understanding that we would make it worse. We must know when nothing is better than something. But sometimes, it is like standing by and watching a fire start.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOr watching someone you care about hang.\u201d<\/p>\n
That was my dog brain running off without me, but she took it in stride. \u201cJust so,\u201d she said. \u201cHere is a juicy tidbit for your story: from time to time I envy the families of my subjects, who can scream and shout and weep at what offends them. That is a privilege I am not allowed.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat about love?\u201d I asked. I let nothing show on my face but chaste curiosity.<\/p>\n
Chella shrugged and bent to dry her legs. \u201cThat is difficult as well. Men and women both wish to be loved completely. They tell me that it is cramped inside a heart, but I can only share mine at best. Some who have tried to love me told themselves that that much was good enough for them, but as you can see, it was never true.\u201d<\/p>\n
I followed her out into the hall. \u201cIf you don\u2019t mind my poking holes in things, it sounds like you\u2019re giving up everything that makes a person.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhatever you treasure, you must give it all that it demands, or it will leave you like a jealous beau,\u201d she said. \u201cLove is nothing but sacrifice.\u201d She stopped at the intersection between her half of the house and mine. \u201cWhat about you?\u201d she asked. You\u2019re a world-traveling man. Have you ever had to leave a girl behind for a good story, William?\u201d<\/p>\n
My first name struck me off-guard. \u201cSure,\u201d I said. \u201cBut I always regret it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen you understand,\u201d she said with a smile, and went the other way.<\/p>\n
Chella insisted on purchasing me a new suit before our appointment with Jofra Emegheri. Her agent informed us that she would only be available at the event she happened to be hosting that night, and she expected formal wear. \u201cYou have to let me pay you back,\u201d I insisted for the tenth time as we made our way through the mansion\u2019s crowded parlor, for only an unwanted and meaningless gesture would soothe my blistered masculinity.<\/p>\n
\u201cCi negat,\u201d Chella said dismissively\u2014a Vizhillian phrase meaning \u2018it\u2019s nothing,\u2019 but with significantly more verve unspoken. I dropped the matter there, still sore from the cash I\u2019d blown on that apartment I never saw.<\/p>\n
The Memorial Party was a similarly unique cultural animal. The same sensibilities that had them itch to linger too long on one subcontinent made them loathe to dwell overlong on death. Memorial Parties were held prior to the expected loss, the point ostensibly being to expunge all sadness through a wild celebration of the dying\u2019s life so that the day of the funeral was as dry as a wrung-out sponge. Women and men alike wore black veils, originally to hide tears, these days mostly out of custom. It made it unnecessarily difficult to track down the lady of the house.<\/p>\n
We eventually found her smoking alone at a glass table on an upstairs balcony. She was the only one without a veil, and I\u2019d seen her face on movie posters. \u201cEnjoying the party?\u201d she asked. She had a glass half-full in front of her, and an empty bottle beside it.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re here on business,\u201d Chella reminded her gently.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell, good,\u201d Jofra replied. \u201cHonestly, it was a mistake. I thought, \u2018I should do one of those.\u2019 All my friends did one, and those were very good fun. Great excuse to get drunk and dance. But then, I\u2019d never lost anyone myself. It\u2019s easy to let go of someone you never knew.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIf you want to talk, we would be happy to listen.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJoin me then,\u201d Jofra said. \u201cLet me tell you what you\u2019re here to be told.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe Jasviga I knew could not do what she did.\u201d<\/p>\n
The actress broke off to inhale about half her cigarette.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe Jasviga in that cell is not mine.\u201d<\/p>\n
Jofra Emegheri was a tall woman, skeletally thin and wan. Her black hair flew away from her in oiled spikes. She\u2019d made her career playing the Malmedra\u2014the wicked woman, a staple of Vizhillian theater\u2014often opposite to Jasviga\u2019s more wholesome ingenues. Despite their contrasts, they\u2019d been close friends for years. If anyone could tell us Jasviga\u2019s thoughts leading up to her arrest, it would be her.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you know they\u2019re celebrating? Not like this, I mean. They\u2019re starting to say that she\u2019s a traitor to Vizhilly, trying to sell national treasures to rich foreigners for their silly mistresses to wear. You bet your ass the Permas are ecstatic about it. They\u2019re out there buying up tickets to the execution right now. You think this is a party? Just you wait.\u201d She made a sour face. \u201cPerhaps it is true, what they say she did, but even so, that is not my Jasviga that will hang.\u201d<\/p>\n
Chella\u2019s veil annulled her expression. \u201cWhat precisely do you mean by that?\u201d<\/p>\n
Jofra scowled hard into my camera, defying future audiences to doubt what she said next. \u201cShe met someone new a few months ago. And the thing about Jasviga is that when she falls in love, she falls all the way down. She\u2019s the sweetest human being you\u2019ll ever meet, but sweet people are soft, and soft people bend easily around hard people.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her voice was level but brittle, a stick of graphite ready to snap. She wore the face that made her famous, the mask of a hard and dangerous woman, a curvaceous sword that punished temptation. I couldn\u2019t blame her; it must have made for good armor in moments like these. A person could hurt, but a character could be as invulnerable as you made them and came off as easily as a false accent.<\/p>\n
\u201cI never met the man, but I could see how he changed her. She dropped out of a project we were working on together. She stopped calling me, and then she stopped picking my calls. The next time I saw her it was on TV, in handcuffs.\u201d<\/p>\n
Chella furrowed her brow. \u201cI wasn\u2019t aware that Jasviga Malmarek had a lover.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou wouldn\u2019t,\u201d Jofra said. \u201cShe\u2019s private. She made me promise that I would keep it to myself, but screw that; he\u2019s involved. I know it.\u201d<\/p>\n
She angrily stubbed out her cigarette, missing the ashtray and hitting the table. \u201cThe man you want is Qillim Tichorannes.\u201d She spat the name out like poison. \u201cOnce you\u2019ve hung Jasviga, I hope you do the same to him.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo Jasviga Malmarek was dating the Smallduke of Vizhilly.\u201d I mimed my brain exploding out my ear.<\/p>\n
That got a soft laugh out of Chella. I felt about a hundred feet tall. \u201cNot the Smallduke yet,\u201d she stressed. \u201cBut yes, among the current contenders, he is said to have the best chance.\u201d<\/p>\n
We lingered together on the balcony. Jofra had gone inside to trade her cigarettes for more liquor.<\/p>\n
\u201cI guess it makes sense,\u201d I said. \u201cCelebrities dating celebrities.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNotoriety does intrude on romance.\u201d<\/p>\n
The title of Smallduke was a fossil from an extinct peerage, royalty in only slightly more truth than an acclaimed musician could be a knight. Be that as it may, the bearer still wielded a power only marginally lesser than that of the Tallduke, one neutered more by tradition than law. Should the vote raise him high enough, his would be one of two hands fighting over the wheel of Vizhilly.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t need to ask if we\u2019d be visiting him next. Chella\u2019s name was as good as a skeleton key in Vizhilly. I didn\u2019t expect that to change now. \u201cDo you think there\u2019s any truth to what she said?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat he manipulated Jasviga?\u201d Chella sighed through her nose. \u201cEven if she had evidence, it would be a matter for the authorities.\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t miss the warning in her tone. I was still nobody\u2019s Watson. But that didn\u2019t put the bloodhound in me back to sleep.<\/p>\n
Down on the back lawn, someone began projecting a movie onto an inflatable screen. Guests meandered towards as the opening credits unspooled, the magic of cinema organizing them into couples. Children Must Fly opened with a one-woman duet, Jasviga singing with herself.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know, I still haven\u2019t sat down to watch that,\u201d I mentioned.<\/p>\n
Chella lifted her veil to show me her smirk. \u201cWe came all this way.\u201d<\/p>\n
I realized I\u2019d have taken any excuse not to leave that balcony where we were together. This was one better than I could have hoped for.<\/p>\n
The film was, in fact, two stories, one retelling how the goddess Pantegloria gave birth to Vizhilly, the other a historical drama about Queen Lisrvolta, the last true monarch of the nation, currently dead three hundred years. It treated them as the same narrative told from different cosmological strata, one a literal if fictitious birth, the other factual yet metaphorical. Just as Pantegloria gave her life to let her child escape the jealous gods of static lands, so did the Queen sacrifice herself to stop the Othmanic Empire from immobilizing Vizhilly. Even as a foreigner with a different history, I found Jasviga a wonder to behold. It was not so much skill as an actor but the unaffected love she gave to the twin roles, to the song she sang to her parallel self as she set her newborn nation free to wander without her. Seeing her in her glory, hearing her turn herself inside out for me, I understood why her country adored her so. She justified the pride they had in their nation. If this woman could bear such boundless and shameless affection for a dumb hunk of land, then it was alright that they did as well.<\/p>\n
I understood too, why Vizhilly would hurt to lose her. The voice of Antideterminism would grow a little quieter. The voices of the Permanationalism would grow louder. The country would become, in a small way, harder to love.<\/p>\n
For Chella, and for me.<\/p>\n
Right then, something once nebulous crystalized inside of me. Chella might have been willing to let Jasviga die, but her binding duty wasn\u2019t mine. My job was to tell the truth. Nothing else mattered.<\/p>\n
The film ended too soon, devouring two hours in what felt like seconds. Guests had begun to wander inside or head home towards the end of the movie. When the projector was turned off and the lawn went dark, it struck me just how alone we were together. Somehow, she and I had gravitated towards one another until now we were only a few inches apart. The breeze caught her silks and fluttered them coyly against me.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat did you think?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI think\u2014\u201d I said and had to stop because I was no longer thinking of the movie at all. I could only think of that small touch she\u2019d gifted me on Short Hat Mountain.<\/p>\n
Chella lifted her veil. \u201cIt\u2019s alright if you don\u2019t like it. We don\u2019t have CGI like in your big Hollywoodland movies.\u201d<\/p>\n
I couldn\u2019t take it anymore; this deep in her gravity, all I could do was stand up on my toes and lean in to her. If you could crane across all of space and kiss a star, I don\u2019t believe you would not.<\/p>\n
She intercepted my pursed lips with the flat of her palm.<\/p>\n
I recoiled, every drop of blood in me flooding into my face. She herself had gone wide-eyed and tight-lipped as something taxidermized.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh my goodness,\u201d she said, her tone cracking ever so slightly.<\/p>\n
As embarrassed as I was, I was perversely proud to have eked that much of a reaction from her. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry,\u201d I said, doubly ashamed, taking a long step back. The balcony felt suddenly claustrophobic; if there hadn\u2019t been a railing there, I would have enthusiastically walked off it.<\/p>\n
Chella took a silent minute to compose herself, smoothing out the wrinkles in her clothing and expression alike. Whatever I\u2019d made her feel disappeared beneath new stone before I could get a good look.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou and I are both observers, of our own kind,\u201d she finally said. \u201cWe must be neutral in all things. Do not become too much a character in your own story.\u201d<\/p>\n
I had been on international flights longer than the drive home. The moment we arrived we said our hasty goodnights and fled to our separate bedrooms. I would have loved nothing more than to let my pillow knock me unconscious for a good long while, but there were matters pressing. I got my laptop, made some coffee, and called Ian on the way back to the bed where I would be getting zero sleep.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you doing up?\u201d he asked. \u201cIt\u2019s got to be one in the morning over there.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t worry about it,\u201d I said. \u201cListen, I need your help here. I\u2019ve got a load of research to do and I\u2019m not sure how long I\u2019ve got. In other words, a two-brain job.\u201d<\/p>\n
He must have picked up the urgency in my voice. \u201cI\u2019ll make some time.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFantastic. Now here\u2019s the game-plan. Get me everything there is on Jasviga Malmarek, the Permanationals, Hiram Bosse, and Qillim Tichorannes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWelcome,\u201d said the would-be-duke. \u201cI\u2019m so glad you\u2019ve come, both of you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Qillim Tichorannes was a tall and unreasonably handsome man in that silver-templed and ageless state that some men reach between thirty and forty. He warmly ushered Chella and I into his office and sat us down at his mahogany desk before a tray of mint biscuits and a q?ng-hu? pot of tea. The saffron robes he wore as a Lord in parliament were hung by the door; carved into the face of his desk was the crest of the esteemed Tichorannes family, a serpent entwined about a lark, the cultural import of which was as lost on me as an inside joke.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe secret\u2019s out,\u201d he remarked, wry but not irate. He took a seat opposite us and steepled his fingers, the very image of a puissant politician. \u201cYes, Jasviga and I have been romantically engaged these last few months. It has been rather difficult to keep under wraps, but we enjoyed our privacy.\u201d<\/p>\n
Chella half-bowed respectfully. \u201cIf you don\u2019t mind speaking about her, your perspective on her would be very helpful for my purposes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot at all,\u201d Qillim said. His smile was as white and spit-shined as a hospital floor. \u201cHonestly, it\u2019s a relief to be able to open up about our relationship.\u201d He snapped off a wink my way. \u201cLet\u2019s do this in Anglic, for the sake of our guest.\u201d<\/p>\n
He spoke at length about his history with Jasviga\u2014how they\u2019d met at the premiere of her last film, the whirlwind of romance he\u2019d spun her away on. How heartbroken he was to learn what she\u2019d done. How he would mourn when she was gone. His body language boasted of unimpeachable confidence, a charisma that could make poll numbers do tricks. I knew, the way dogs foretold earthquakes, that this man would get everything he wanted.<\/p>\n
I kept my mouth shut and bided my time. My chance came when Chella announced she had to take a call and apologetically left the room.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you mind I ask a question of my own?\u201d I asked the moment I was sure the coast was clear.<\/p>\n
Qillim shrugged. \u201cIt would be weird if I said no.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThanks,\u201d I said. \u201cWhat made you want to be a Perma?\u201d<\/p>\n
His affable grin didn\u2019t budge, but I felt its temperature go down a few degrees. \u201cYou seem to be confused. I am of the Peace and Continuance Party. We are quite moderate by most standards.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMy mistake,\u201d I said. \u201cDo you know a businessman from the UCC by the name of Hiram Bosse?\u201d<\/p>\n
Qillim looked perfectly contrite. \u201cMy focus is the state of politics here at home.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe state of politics? Interesting choice of words. Hiram Bosse doesn\u2019t have much to do with politics in the UCC. So it\u2019s doubly strange that he\u2019d be helping to bankroll the Permanational demonstrations here in Vizhilly.\u201d As I spoke, I took a printed packet from my satchel and laid it on the desk. I\u2019d promised Ian a night out on me for his help putting all this together. \u201cNot straight across, I mean. We\u2019re talking the usual tangle of shell companies and laundering operations. Still illegal, but harder to track, unless you know to look for it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Qillim raised his eyebrows. \u201cIf that\u2019s true, this could be a massive scandal for the Permas. They\u2019re supposed to be against foreign influence. I\u2019d very much like to see your research.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSure.\u201d I unpacked the rest of my printouts and heaped them on the pile. \u201cFor starters, here are some records of your financial dealings with Hiram Bosse, whom you do not know. You were in real estate before you were a Lord, yes? Your companies once collaborated on a luxury hotel in Constantinople. And here\u2014\u201d I paused to flip up the first few pages, \u201c\u2014is documentation of you meeting with Hiam Bosse at least seven times in the last ten years. This, for instance, is a photo of you together taken at that hotel four weeks before Mister Bosse was banned from entering Vizhilly for his collection of goldhead spiders. You might remember that story.\u201d<\/p>\n
Qillim took my work and rifled through it. \u201cYou seem to be building up to something,\u201d he said, and the tips of his smile sharpened into stingers. Nothing a camera would pick up, the smug son of a bitch. I knew he was baiting me, and something in me took it anyway.<\/p>\n
\u201cAlright,\u201d I snapped. \u201cI think you\u2019ve been working with Hiram Bosse to covertly fund the Permanational movement. I think you\u2019re promising him the first slice of the pie after you take over Vizhilly. The spiders you\u2019ve been giving him? Gifts between friends, to help keep him a happy investor. And I think that after it became difficult to meet with him directly, you decided to use Jasviga Malmarek as a go-between. You had her family watched to make sure she didn\u2019t rat you out. I think that you\u2019ll become Smallduke, and you\u2019ll keep the Perma movement chugging along until you have the public will to stop the country. And you\u2019ll let Jasviga die to accomplish everything she\u2019s against.\u201d<\/p>\n
For all the fire I spat at him, Qillim wasn\u2019t so much as singed. \u201cInteresting,\u201d he remarked.<\/p>\n
I slumped back in my seat feeling spent. \u201cIt\u2019s the irony that kills me,\u201d I groused. \u201cYou people are supposed to be against us foreigners coming in and sticking their hands in things. Tell me, sir, when you get a hold of the government and the country\u2019s finally stopped, how long until there\u2019s a shiny new Bosse-brand hotel looming over downtown Tessadorma? Because that\u2019s how it always goes with this sort of thing. But I figure the ends justify the means for you. And besides, you\u2019ll probably be a partner in that hotel.\u201d<\/p>\n
It wouldn\u2019t just be Hiram Bosse either, While the Permas on the street would be cheering as the walls went up, the billionaires of the world would be ripping the softest morsels out Vizhilly\u2019s underbelly, wolves let in through the door Qillim held open. The people would never know they\u2019d been conquered at last, because empires no longer marched with armies, but with lawyers and politicians.<\/p>\n
Qillim spread his hands helplessly. \u201cWhat is it you want from me, Mister Shock?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI want you to admit it,\u201d I said, crushing the words through barred teeth.<\/p>\n
Qillim was silent for a few ticks of the clock. He peered around his office like an amnesiac uncertain of where he was. \u201cWhere are the police?\u201d he asked, puzzled.<\/p>\n
\u201cI-what?\u201d<\/p>\n
He slapped my research against his palm. \u201cThere\u2019s a lot of interesting information here, but I think that if you could prove any of what you\u2019re claiming, I would be under arrestment right now.\u201d<\/p>\n
I had nothing for that because he was correct. Oh, I could draw lines between suspicious dots, but that didn\u2019t necessarily make a picture. \u201cI\u2019ve only just started digging,\u201d I said. \u201cThis was what I found in a weekend. If you think that I\u2019m just\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cStop.\u201d<\/p>\n
That word, calmly spoken, filled the room the way a gunshot could. I turned to see Chella in the doorway, her face a snapshot of an eruption.<\/p>\n
\u201cExplain,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cAllow me,\u201d said Qillim Tichorannes.<\/p>\n
A sudden squall had draped winter over Tessadorma by the time we drove away from Lord\u2019s office. The city\u2019s colors ran gray in that freezing downpour, turning the autocar\u2019s windows into concrete walls. Hours passed in increments of green lights and autocar lengths as I waited for my sentence to come down.<\/p>\n
\u201cI must ask that you leave my home immediately,\u201d Chella said at last. I\u2019d seen something like that coming, but I let it stab me anyway.<\/p>\n
\u201cI apologize, but you are no longer welcome there. We will collect your things, and then I will take you elsewhere.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t understand,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou certainly do not. It was never my responsibility to try and prove Jasviga\u2019s innocence. A noosemaker is trusted to do one thing, no more, and as my associate, I trusted you to respect that. Instead, you have jeopardized my career and my reputation.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLook\u2014I\u2019m sorry. Honest. But you know he\u2019s guilty.\u201d<\/p>\n
Chella shook her head. \u201cI absolutely do not. You have no proof, only suspicions. I cannot forsake the oath I swore for so little. A fair death is entrusted to me; if I show any bias at all, I would be betraying my subject and my country both.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWell why does it have to be that way?\u201d I spluttered. \u201cWhy does duty have to matter more than anything else? You\u2019re a woman, not a job.\u201d I said it knowing that it was selfish. I wanted her to be woman because a woman was human, could forgive, could forget. Could love.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is incorrect,\u201d she replied, suddenly stolid just as I was growing heated. \u201cI am neither. I am a function. And you have interfered.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, no, no. You can\u2019t tell me that you\u2019re alright hanging someone you know is innocent. Someone who means so much to this country that you love. Jasviga gets hanged, and that\u2019s one less voice telling Vizhilly not to run itself into the rocks. This,\u201d I stabbed the dashboard with my finger for emphasis, \u201c\u2014this is one life that you don\u2019t have to take.\u201d<\/p>\n
Words were too feeble to tell me how wrong I was in her eyes. Some people can ignore so intensely as to shut you out of their world. Chella\u2019s deliberate silence threatened to crush me to nothing against the passenger-side door.<\/p>\n
In a much smaller voice, I said, \u201cyour duty can\u2019t mean this much to you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Chella slammed on the brakes. Swerving through traffic, she pulled us over to a curb, where she ordered me out of the autocar. I briefly thought that she would leave me there, only for her to join me on the sidewalk. The rain turned my clothes to ice within seconds. If Chella felt the cold at all, I couldn\u2019t say.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have no idea how arrogant you are,\u201d she snarled. \u201cPerhaps you can\u2019t understand how a responsibility could mean so much to someone, but my duty is everything. You tried to force me to sacrifice what I am not willing to give. And for what? So that you could be the hero? You believe that you can traipse onto my country and solve all its problems within a week. As if all along we were waiting for a lone foreigner in shining armor to come and save us from ourselves. Let me tell you this: Jasviga was never going to be saved.\u201d<\/p>\n
All words escaped me but the simplest.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n
Her steely gaze impaled me to the spot. \u201cNo matter the pressures that may have been put upon her, the fact remains. Her actions caused the death of an innocent. Vizhillian law does not bend. Nothing I could sacrifice can change the past.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her next words came down like the hand of god, slapping hope back to Earth.<\/p>\n
\u201cJasviga was always going to be hung.\u201d<\/p>\n
A passing omnibus honked its horn. A couple under one umbrella waved down a cab. Drivers argued from vehicle-widths apart. Business carried on uninterrupted. The city had known all along. Only I hadn\u2019t been in on the joke. I hung my head, picturing that pitfall of a moment: Jasviga\u2019s suitcase open on the table; the spider\u2019s fangs sinking into that guard\u2019s hand; Jasviga\u2019s beautiful voice tearing as she screamed, knowing instantly that she was already dead.<\/p>\n
\u201cLet me tell you one more thing,\u201d Chella said. \u201cVizhilly does not belong to you. It is not yours to save. You may think you love it, but you are merely spellbound by our curiosities, and that will not last. You are a bored young man with a job too important for him, who cares for nothing more than he does chasing after the most interesting thing in sight. First it was me, and now this. And when you have tired of adventure, you will go home to write a story in which you are the hero, leaving us to clean up what you have broken. Am I mistaken in anything I have said?\u201d<\/p>\n
Water sloughed off her lips, her nose, ran into her eyes and out, and could not make her blink. Nothing touched her if she did not allow it. I studied her throughout a long held-breath, searching for some fracture-point in that un-expression that would let me in, and found nothing.<\/p>\n
Why are you like this, I burned to ask. But I understood then that it was far too late.<\/p>\n
First it was me, and now this.<\/p>\n
I was well beyond that now.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou cannot have my country for you have sacrificed nothing to it,\u201d she said. \u201cYou are a tourist.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then she left me there and drove away.<\/p>\n
That afternoon I finally checked into the room I\u2019d rented. I passed the time until dark cataloguing the autocars passing below my window and slept naked with my wet clothes hung up in the shower. My things were delivered the following morning, along with a ticket back to the UCC. It hit me that during my time here I\u2019d not stopped to buy anything to take home with me. That felt right.<\/p>\n
That night I flew away from Vizhilly, dreaming of a kiss that never happened.<\/p>\n
Chella was not wrong about me. I went home and I wrote my story. I had bills to pay, after all. A career to consider. It was not the story I\u2019d set out to write, however. My week or so in that moving country had not taught me all that much about Chella Gipzodi, which my editor was apoplectic to learn. Instead, I described a nation between two futures, a conspiracy that maybe was, and an icon abused. I spoke about a solitary artist and the man foolish enough to fall for her. Many threads, all without endings. I released everything I had, every bit of audio and video, and asked the public to pen their own conclusions.<\/p>\n
It received a fair bit of interest. Probably more than I\u2019d have gotten with the day-in-the-life biography I\u2019d intended. Chella was right, as always; my country rewarded the unscrupulous. I suppose Hiram Bosse could have told me as much.<\/p>\n
It got people talking, at the very least. I could be satisfied with that.<\/p>\n
Three weeks later, while my story was still riding the crest of international discourse, Jasviga Malmarek was hung at Tessadorma Cathedral on a sunny Thursday morning. Chella performed her duty no more or less professionally than she had for so many murderers and rapists; I stayed up late to watch it happen live. As she hoisted Jasviga towards the sky, the cameras zoomed in to ogle the noose digging into her neck, the most famous noosemaker\u2019s most recent opus. That lithe cord had been braided with money, gray-green UCC dollars in multi-zeroed denominations. It collared her in paper ribbons of thorny rune-script. A pendant glinted on her throat\u2014a serpent entwined around a lark, etched into a golden spider.<\/p>\n
Perfectly innocent symbols, all perfectly relevant to her life.<\/p>\n
The world watched Jasviga smile as she fell.<\/p>\n
Chella told me once that she lied plenty often. Even to me. I wondered now how true that was.<\/p>\n
Seeing that noose got me to thinking. Maybe Chella had another motivation to call me to her house. Maybe I\u2019d been meant to do something she couldn\u2019t. I had too many questions I couldn\u2019t ask her. Why had she taken me up to the top of Short Hat Mountain? Who had been calling her, that day in Qillim\u2019s office? Why had she never warned me not to publish what I knew? I had my suspicions, but nothing more.<\/p>\n
Maybe I was just desperate to excuse myself.<\/p>\n
Either way. Whether it was her noose or my story or both, the talk I\u2019d begun inflamed into a conversation. Support for Permanationalism plummeted in the polls. Reports suggested a second investigation was being opened. Citing a personal emergency, Qillim Tichorannes dropped out of the race and hopped on a plane to somewhere undisclosed. There was no word left on when he\u2019d return. The savvy gamblers said it would be a while. Of Chella there was little mention; she\u2019d done her job without error.<\/p>\n
As for myself, I could only ponder the bonds of duty, and the loopholes there must be in them.<\/p>\n
Meanwhile, Vizhilly moved on without me, with not so much as thank you for what I may or may not have done for it. Some ugly part of me thought it might come and carry me away in gratitude, but I was a fool to think I mattered that much to it. That country is, at the end of the day, an untame animal. When hurt, it prefers to lick its own wounds. It might tolerate you on its back for a time, but no-one can hope to ride it forever. You must love it for what it is, or not at all.<\/p>\n
I have since come to a peace. I went chasing after the strange and for a moment, I held it. Were I to keep it forever as so many conquerors had failed to do, it would no longer be strange.<\/p>\n
Vizhilly moved on, but the world is a sphere. One day it may come back around.<\/p>\n
And Chella may still be there. <\/p>\n
Evan Marcroft is a speculative fiction writer from Sacramento California, currently operating out of Chicago with his wife. Evan uses his expensive degree in literary criticism to do menial data entry, and dreams of writing for video games, though he\u2019ll settle for literature instead. His works of science fiction, fantasy, and spine-curdling horror can be found in a variety of venues, such as Pseudopod, Strange Horizons, and Asimov\u2019s SF. Find a complete list of his published works at evan-marcroft@squarespace.com, or follow him on twitter at @Evan_Marcroft.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The first I saw of her was three minutes of video surreptitiously taken before the camcorder was confiscated. All footage of her unique act was strictly controlled. I remember losing the need to breathe as the sunlight runneling off the stained-glass spine of Tessadorma Cathedral broke into a billion particles across her taut scapulae. I …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":105839,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,14,20109],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-140176","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-publications","category-tcl-46-winter-2023","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140176","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/105839"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=140176"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140176\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":140426,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140176\/revisions\/140426"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=140176"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=140176"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=140176"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}